The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories by Marina Keegan Page B
Authors: Marina Keegan
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Manhattan hot? Have the Japanese invaded or is it still too early in the summer? I’d tell you more about this strange country if I could, but I’m caged up. They’ve built us this greenhouse and won’t let us out.
Anyway, my fan died, so I should probably sleep before I melt. I swear this whole desert’s going to melt into glass by August. But don’t worry about me, Laura, really don’t. It’s safer than the city in here, I promise.
Your long lost soldier CPA officer, Will
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Jun 24, 2003 at 12:39 PM
Subject: greetings from kebab-land
Laura!
I’m eating a kebab right now and it’s raining outside. This juxtaposition is just about the best thing to happen all month. CPA turned the palace ballroom into a chow hall, so I’m writing to you from quite the elegant milieu. My romanticism pees itself in places like this—you know how I get around high ceilings. I picture Saddam and his sons roaming the naves at some dance. Perhaps stopping at this very spot to smooth out a beard or straighten a robe. We joke that the ghosts of Husseins haunt the hallways at night, creeping out once they lock the marble doors at nine.
I’m in a great mood, Laura. Perhaps the best since I arrived. I was worried when you didn’t reply last week that you weren’t going to, so when I saw your name in my inbox this morning, I was ecstatic. I know you said not to talk about it, but I’m glad we’re staying in contact like this. I miss you, and having someone on the outside is more important than you can imagine.
There’s other good news: they assigned me my translator last week and I finally feel like I’ll be able to get some work done. Relocating Iraqi families is hard enough without memorized Arabic phrases and awkward insertions of ana asif, ana asif, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Her name’s Haaya and she’s amazing. Her dad was an official of the Iraqi Ba’ath party in the 80’s, but her mom’s “a soviet.” When she was twelve, government men killed her father and brothers while she watched from upstairs—punishment for siding with Kuwait. After that she lived in Russia—but two months out of Moscow University and she’s back in the desert—whispering English into turban-less ears.
She doesn’t wear a hijab or burka or even long sleeves. She just glides through the palms like she grew them, moves through the palace like it’s hers. I didn’t even know how much I needed her until she appeared. I can speak now. I can hear now. I can talk to the slum men and the landlords and the vendors selling pita—hear their housing concerns without consulting ten dictionaries. It’s just nice having someone to talk to outside the confines of my keyboard. Wolf and Michael are great, but they know more about post-conflict reconstruction policy than anything else (except maybe combat video games).
Haaya studied art history, so we indulge in humanities stuff together. She explained about the buildings and statues and I explained about the designs. Did you know that before the Ottomans, mosques had no ceilings? I like that. It seems more natural to pray in the open air. Haaya prays five times a day despite her bare arms. She has this little mat in her backpack and just excuses herself from meetings. Last night we went to the orange trees and watched the Helipad landings. (She knows the guard who minds the orchard.) I told her about you while we peeled citrus rinds. You’d like each other, I think.
Arghgfljshdfg, Laura! There are so many places I still want to go, so many things I still want to do! Leaving the world of corporations and nine-to-fives has inspired this sort of naïve expeditionism in me. (My computer’s telling me that’s not a word, but I swear it is.) Have you ever been to Asia? I think we should go to Asia. Asia or Africa. Remember when we used to talk about going on a trip? It was a while ago, but still. I know we agreed not to talk
Anyway, my fan died, so I should probably sleep before I melt. I swear this whole desert’s going to melt into glass by August. But don’t worry about me, Laura, really don’t. It’s safer than the city in here, I promise.
Your long lost soldier CPA officer, Will
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Jun 24, 2003 at 12:39 PM
Subject: greetings from kebab-land
Laura!
I’m eating a kebab right now and it’s raining outside. This juxtaposition is just about the best thing to happen all month. CPA turned the palace ballroom into a chow hall, so I’m writing to you from quite the elegant milieu. My romanticism pees itself in places like this—you know how I get around high ceilings. I picture Saddam and his sons roaming the naves at some dance. Perhaps stopping at this very spot to smooth out a beard or straighten a robe. We joke that the ghosts of Husseins haunt the hallways at night, creeping out once they lock the marble doors at nine.
I’m in a great mood, Laura. Perhaps the best since I arrived. I was worried when you didn’t reply last week that you weren’t going to, so when I saw your name in my inbox this morning, I was ecstatic. I know you said not to talk about it, but I’m glad we’re staying in contact like this. I miss you, and having someone on the outside is more important than you can imagine.
There’s other good news: they assigned me my translator last week and I finally feel like I’ll be able to get some work done. Relocating Iraqi families is hard enough without memorized Arabic phrases and awkward insertions of ana asif, ana asif, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Her name’s Haaya and she’s amazing. Her dad was an official of the Iraqi Ba’ath party in the 80’s, but her mom’s “a soviet.” When she was twelve, government men killed her father and brothers while she watched from upstairs—punishment for siding with Kuwait. After that she lived in Russia—but two months out of Moscow University and she’s back in the desert—whispering English into turban-less ears.
She doesn’t wear a hijab or burka or even long sleeves. She just glides through the palms like she grew them, moves through the palace like it’s hers. I didn’t even know how much I needed her until she appeared. I can speak now. I can hear now. I can talk to the slum men and the landlords and the vendors selling pita—hear their housing concerns without consulting ten dictionaries. It’s just nice having someone to talk to outside the confines of my keyboard. Wolf and Michael are great, but they know more about post-conflict reconstruction policy than anything else (except maybe combat video games).
Haaya studied art history, so we indulge in humanities stuff together. She explained about the buildings and statues and I explained about the designs. Did you know that before the Ottomans, mosques had no ceilings? I like that. It seems more natural to pray in the open air. Haaya prays five times a day despite her bare arms. She has this little mat in her backpack and just excuses herself from meetings. Last night we went to the orange trees and watched the Helipad landings. (She knows the guard who minds the orchard.) I told her about you while we peeled citrus rinds. You’d like each other, I think.
Arghgfljshdfg, Laura! There are so many places I still want to go, so many things I still want to do! Leaving the world of corporations and nine-to-fives has inspired this sort of naïve expeditionism in me. (My computer’s telling me that’s not a word, but I swear it is.) Have you ever been to Asia? I think we should go to Asia. Asia or Africa. Remember when we used to talk about going on a trip? It was a while ago, but still. I know we agreed not to talk
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